


Follow The Lede

by fortythousandth



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, School Newspaper AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:33:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3197246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortythousandth/pseuds/fortythousandth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michiru Kaioh, Editor In Chief of the Mugen Observer, is on a quest to find the big scoop that will make her high school career. But with her friends meddling in her love life, competition from a rival independent zine, and her nagging crush on her best friend, finding her story is easier said than done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow The Lede

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a holiday gift over at Tumblr!

The light’s on in room 019, and Satoshi Sagawa’s plans are ruined.

He’d meant to just get in and out of the Badminton Club and have his article finished by his deadline, but he hadn’t anticipated all of his friends in the club showing him their most devastating serves, looping him in for game after game, and even taking him for soda afterward.

The result? The sun’s been down for several hours already in the bleak midwinter, but it’s fine; he scrawled a draft on a page torn out of his notebook that’s currently resting crumped at the bottom of his schoolbag, making sure to get some choice quotes from his friends, and it’s not his best work, but at least it’s done.

But as Satoshi ambles through the basement hallway of Mugen Academy en route to the newspaper room sequestered beneath the stairs, one hand cradling his leftover soda and the other thwap-thwapping against the locker banks lining the hallways, his walk, if possible, slows even more. It had all seemed so clear: step one: finish the article, step two: just slip it under the door, step three: profit, adoration, probably the phone number of the cute girl in the club whom he’d quoted so favorably.

But why’s anyone in the newsroom at—Satoshi checks—7:14 in the evening? Having to face a live human throws a definite wrench into his perfect plan. It’s not like anything’s due THAT soon. The newspaper doesn’t even print for two more days. Satoshi cheers himself with the thought that, well, maybe it’s just the janitor.

As he steps into the room, his hopes sink.

Behind her computer at the desk sits the aqua-haired Editor in Chief of the Mugen Observer, with a look on her face that makes Satoshi’s blood run cold. “Sagawa,” she says, voice like a gorgeous snake about to strike, “I see you’ve completed your article.”

All of a sudden, Satoshi finds himself wishing that he had found the time to get a haircut before this encounter, or re-tucked his shirt in, and he has never, ever in his life felt such a strong urge to, dear god, make sure his fly isn’t open. He clears his throat and holds himself just a bit straighter, rummaging around in his bag for the draft. “Yeah, Kaioh-san, sorry I’m late. I got caught up with my, er, interview, and lost track of time.”

“Oh? But I see you had enough time to get yourself a soda,” Kaioh says pleasantly.

Satoshi coughs and tries to subtly hide his almost fluorescent green soda behind his back, hoping his article, presented with a flourish, will be distraction enough. “Um, well, here it is!” he chirps, trying his best to look equal measures of capable and cheery.

Kaioh doesn’t move an inch. For the first time, Satoshi thinks to himself that he might be in actual trouble.

“This is handwritten,” Kaioh says.

“I was concerned about my deadline, and—”

“So concerned that you show up three hours late with a soda.”

Satoshi wishes he had thrown that soda in the trash before he came here. He doesn’t even LIKE kiwi soda that much. Subtly, he puts the soda down on the desk behind him. “Um…would…Hino-san happen to be here?”

Kaioh raises one elegant eyebrow, the slight smile never leaving her face. “Is there something you would like to say to the News Editor that you can’t say to me?”

“N-no,” Satoshi stammers. Hino intimidates him, to be sure, but while her temper is notorious amongst all of the newswriters she supervises, Satoshi has at least heard vague fables of people who have been able to reason with her. Kaioh, however… Satoshi starts to wonder if he’s going to actually leave the newsroom alive.

A solitary bead of sweat trickles down his back.

Kaioh plucks the article out of his hand like it’s a dirty diaper. “I see you removed the detritus from where you presumably tore this from your notebook. Thank goodness for simple courtesies.”

“Thank…you?” Satoshi wonders if this is the right answer, and realizes it isn’t when the sharp bark of laughter sounds from the corner of the room. He hadn’t noticed the figure leaning haphazardly against the printer bank, the lanky blonde who’s technically in charge of pictures and morale or something, but who, in reality, seems to mostly just calm Kaioh down all of the time. He turns back to the Editor in Chief. “What’s the photographer doing here?”

The blonde’s smile deepens into a smirk. When Satoshi turns back to Kaioh, all traces of kindness—even the bemused pity—have disappeared from her face. “Are you questioning how I run my paper, Sagawa?”

“I, uh…no?” he volunteers.

“You have come to my office, hours late, with an article written on a piece of notebook paper. It’s unedited, features crossed out stains of pen, and seems as if it was written in five minutes. Also, your quoting style is abysmal. Thank you, Sagawa, but we will not be needing your services at the Observer any longer.”

Satoshi blinks. “Wait…what?”

Kaioh’s already turning back to her computer. “Does Tenoh need to show you out?”

Satoshi splutters, trying to think of something to say to save his job. The blonde in the corner gives him a tough-luck half-shrug. “You’re firing me over one article?”

Kaioh doesn’t even look up at him. “You’re a first year, Sagawa; you still have time to change your club. Perhaps you can join the badminton team—you certainly seemed fond of Aoki’s attacking style in your article.”

Satoshi blushes. “You could tell all that from the article?”

“Thank you, Sagawa.”

In a slight daze, Satoshi leaves. As the door closes behind him, he reflects to himself: maybe things aren’t so bad. Everyone always tells him that there’s no market for journalism; the Observer will probably fold in a couple of years, anyway. Maybe he  could follow his dreams. Pursue art, maybe. He’ll definitely have more time for his studies after being fired from—well, quitting, he’ll tell everyone he quit—the newspaper. He’ll go home, have a nice bath, reflect on his life, and he even has a refreshing drink to—

He whirls around. “Damn! I left my soda in there!”

* * *

Back in the newsroom, Haruka chuckles. “Did you see the look on his face? I think he thought I was going to beat him up.”

“Well, you are unquestionably our paper’s athlete,” Michiru replies, bathing in the grateful smile Haruka sends her way. While Haruka’s tendonitis in her knees—one of the most aggressive cases the doctor had said she’d ever seen in someone so young, almost as if she’d spent years upon years abusing them in a past life—had forced her to quit sports midway through her first year and join on at the Observer with Michiru, after building so much of herself around being known as a star jock, Haruka still gets sensitive about her body’s capabilities.

At least it’s somewhat better around the paper. Michiru’s well aware that Haruka only started at the Observer because Michiru worked there, and as they were inseparable in nearly everything else, it was the natural choice. Haruka, to everyone’s surprise, had shown a natural aptitude for photography, mainly because of her willingness to contort herself, throw herself in mud, and do whatever it took up to and including almost martyrdom levels of bodily sacrifice to get the best shot. Over the years, she’s become widely renowned as easily the best photographer in the school. And when Michiru had become Editor in Chief, Haruka was the staff’s unanimous choice for Managing Editor of Content—because, as Minako had gleefully told her, Michiru scares everyone too much without a barrier between her and the rest of the world.

“I think Sagawa was more concerned about what I would do to him,” Michiru says, eyes setting on the atrocious crumpled ball still sitting on her desk.

“Then he’s smarter than you give him credit for.” Haruka shoots her a rakish grin that still, even after all of these years and almost constant fledgling advances from Michiru that have gone completely ignored by Haruka, makes her heart skip a beat. “You really can’t publish the article?”

In response, Michiru draws an aggressive blue line through the Badminton Club article on the idea board and steps back, surveying her spread grimly. The amount of crossed-off items before her would make for an extremely satisfactory To Do List, but as is, the template for the upcoming issue of the Observer looks bleak. There are about a million things she needs to do. Probably, she should start work on an article of her own to replace the newly vacated space, which will undoubtedly keep her busy for—

“Michiru.”

And then there’s Haruka, the one person on Earth who could possibly tear Michiru away from her paper—rather, the one person on Earth who would dare to even try tearing Michiru away from her paper. While Haruka’s official title may be Managing Editor, she never particularly does much in the way of management except placate everyone and charm a seemingly endless stream of disposable first year girls to come fill in the gaps left by numerous fired writers.

“ _Michiru!_ Come on.” Haruka lingers by the doorway, hand poised dangerously close to the lightswitch. “I had to work at the restaurant all last weekend, so if taking you out is the one good thing to come of that, then I’ll even treat. Can we go?”

Michiru exhales and tucks the first year’s mess of article away in her file cabinet. Maybe in a pinch, Ami could polish it up for a later issue. But for now, the first year Sagawa certainly deserves no credit for such an egregious show of unsubstantiated arrogance.

Michiru really ought to write an article tonight—she can’t afford to rest. She’s worked her way up the ladder at the Observer for years now to be in this position, and she knows—is sure of it—that there’s one great story waiting out there for her, the story that will change hearts and minds and shake the school to its core.

She just has to find it.

There’s the upcoming Winter Formal, but writing about young blossoming romance, for some reason, happens to be pretty low on her priority list at the moment. She’s also, as a fallback option, been sitting on a story about the new biology teacher’s eccentric plans for the school’s rooftop garden for weeks now.

Still, if it’s between dinner with Haruka or spending her evening thinking about Tellu-Sensei, the odds are clearly stacked. “I’ll need to call Rei and see if she’s willing to write an extra opinion space to fill the gap. If not—”

“No,” Haruka says, obviously sensing that she’s close to a victory. She flips the lightswitch off, leaving the room illuminated only by the glow of Michiru’s computer screen. As Michiru begins to protest, Haruka cuts her off. “You don’t have to worry about the finalized flat for two days, so worry about it two days from now. And of course Rei will write you an extra opinion piece. If she doesn’t, first we’ll call the police, because if Rei is EVER short on opinions she must’ve been bodysnatched or something, and after that, I don’t know, maybe we can go to that aquarium you like and I can take pictures of the fish and sharks and otters and stuff. It’s not a ton of blank space we have to fill, and who doesn’t like candids of sharks?”

Haruka’s eyes are wide and innocent, and Michiru knows she’s being placated. The worst part of it is that coming from Haruka, she doesn’t mind at all. “Haruka,” she says, “we can’t have an entire issue just strewn with pictures of fish.”

Haruka winks at her. “If anyone can make it work, I can.”

In that moment, around the twist of yearning in her stomach, Michiru would believe anything Haruka told her.

* * *

After a phone call to Rei (involving a very enthusiastic diatribe about the ridiculousness of the boys in Rei’s Modern Society class), and after shutting down the banks of computers and printers, Michiru’s finally in her coat and ready to step out into the November night.

However, before stepping out into the November night, she must first step out the newsroom door, and that’s where she slows. “Oh.”

“What?” Haruka finishes powering off the last printer, slings her camera bag over her shoulder, and comes to peek over Michiru’s shoulder. Instantly, her expression shifts to fury. “No. They didn’t.”

“It appears as though they did,” Michiru says.

Haruka stoops and scoops up the zine before them, almost certainly hot off the presses and left as a gift in front of the Observer’s door, and reads aloud: “‘Satellite: bringing Mugen’s resounding truths to light.’ Brought to you by Seiya Kou, Asshole in Chief.”

“Oh? It’s unlike you to attribute such a level of self-awareness to Seiya in your criticism of them,” Michiru says, scanning the cover of her rivals’ publication, which features, true to name, grainy black and white cutout pictures of famous satellites. While Michiru wouldn’t consider herself an expert in space technology, she recognizes the International Space Station, and she has to admit that Satellite features a beautiful cover layout.

“And it’s unlike them to leave their little handmade coloring book in front of our door,” Haruka snaps.

“I’ve said it before, Haruka: independent journalism at Mugen is good for the Observer. It only reinforces our superior quality and reporting skills.” Michiru can’t help but wonder, however, the point of having the zine placed in front of the newsroom’s door. It’s a bold move; bolder than even someone who may or may not be (considering that everything in Satellite is unsigned) Seiya Kou would normally attempt. Maybe the Satellite does have some kind of scoop.

“This isn’t independent journalism, Michiru,” Haruka says, waving the zine, “it’s the Seiya Kou soapbox. They think they’re some amazing rebel just because they aren’t involved with the school, and in the meantime, they can say anything they want and get away with it. They have no standards for human decency! Just listen to this.” Haruka turns to the front page, an unsigned editor’s note with some doodles of stars in the margins, and begins to read:

_“‘Greetings to the humans of Mugen Academy! I’d first like to thank you. To thank you for what, you ask, dear reader?’”_

“You always told me that articles can’t have rhetorical question,” Haruka grumbles.

“I’m fairly certain that they intend on answering this question,” Michiru replies.

_“‘I thank you for turning away from our competition and seeking out the one source of fully disclosed truth at our school! Penetrating through the darkness of authority cast over our school, we are Satellite, and the day we stop telling you the full truth, and nothing BUT the truth, is the day our very lives end!’”_

“That day is sooner than Seiya thinks,” Haruka growls.

_“‘And I also want to issue my usual plea. Readers, turn away from the Observer; while I’ve always been public about my appreciation of a certain Editor in Chief—’”_

“Oh my, Haruka. It appears that Seiya appreciates me,” Michiru comments.

Haruka is nearly purple. She stammers for several moments, either trying to think of an appropriate comment or actually unable to speak, before just returning back to the article.

_“‘—I can’t help but raise some questions about the other leadership of the paper. I do remind you, the Observer is our school paper, and everything they publish must go through the principal and his office. Does that sound to you like an environment conducive to the truth? Of course not; at the very best, what you see with them is a sanitized version of the stories of our school that I KNOW matter to you. Mugen, you deserve better._

_As always, readers, we at the Satellite seek contributors to our magazine. Just send us a message to the email listed below and we’ll get started. If you want to be a regular, great! A one time contributor, great! Either way, we’ll get your story told. And hey—I can promise you this: you’ll never be just one in the crowd of the revolving door dating service for a certain blonde higher-up in the Observer.”_

Haruka nearly rips the zine in two. “Seiya Kou is a fraud! This is libel! I went on one date with one first year ONE TIME. Her parents didn’t even let us leave the house and I sneezed all over her dog. Plus, I’m pretty sure they all thought I was a guy.”

“Yes, I recall that was a difficult time for you,” Michiru says, remembering the failure with no uncertain amounts of schadenfreude.

Haruka doesn’t even bother with the rest of the editor’s note, instead skimming through the rest of the zine. “It looks like the rest of it is just terrible poetry and silly arty photographs.” Haruka swallows hard. “Really GOOD silly arty photographs. DAMN it.” She throws the zine on the ground.

“Haruka, pick it up,” Michiru says.

“And put it in the trash?” Haruka says hopefully.

“And give it to me.” Michiru’s eyes drift across the message on the back cover of the zine, positioned just below a fuzzy photo of a stack of books by prominent 18th century poets. “‘Listen, join us at the Satellite. I’m going to get to the bottom of something here soon, I guarantee it! ;)’”

“A winky face,” Haruka spits. “Seiya Kou is seventeen years old and using winky faces.”

Michiru, as usual, is more thoughtful. “What do you suppose they mean by that? Do you think they actually are working on a big story that we’ve missed?”

Haruka scoffs. “Of course not. The Egotist in Chief is just trying to drum up support for their little campaign. If there’s something big, Michiru, you’re going to see it. Guaranteed.”

“You’re right,” Michiru murmurs. But she tucks the zine into her schoolbag for further perusal anyway.

* * *

Later that evening, after a warm, entertaining, infuriatingly platonic dinner with Haruka, Michiru sits in her room, pondering.

She flips through the wrinkled copy of Satellite, thinking again about its message. It’s not that she feels particularly threatened by the zine; the downside of anonymity is that, especially in journalism, it costs significant credibility. Further, the zine, having no attachments, also is known for being more lax in its factchecking. Haruka hadn’t been far off when she’d called it a soapbox; often the zine devolved into passionate opinion pieces critiquing everything from the slow phasing out of arts in the classroom up to the brand of soda Mugen stocked in its vending machines.

But anonymity also grants a certain amount of freedom.

Michiru’s sensible, and just by growing up in the Kaioh technology empire, she’s learned that the smartest way to gain power is to allow everyone else to give you power—until everything winds up in your hands. Such had been her guiding philosophy behind her ascent to the Editor in Chief position of the Mugen Observer. (Perhaps more accurately, such had been her dreams of the ascent; instead, she’d insisted on an election, for democratic purposes, but instead found herself running unopposed. Haruka had told her later that it’s not that nobody else wanted the job, but rather than nobody thought they could do the job better. Michiru, in her heart of hearts, still doesn’t believe that, but she appreciates the sentiment.)

And despite Seiya’s—or whomever’s (probably Seiya’s)—kind words in the editor’s note, Michiru can’t help but bristle at the accusation that the Observer is merely a puppet for the administration. Michiru knows how to pick her battles. If there is a big story hidden somewhere, she’ll cover it, and the administration will simply have to deal with the fallout. She didn’t get involved with journalism to write the safe stories. There’s always been a certain amount of chaos in Michiru’s worldview, and the Observer is no exception.

But first, she needs to actually uncover a story—and the Satellite can’t beat her to it. To make sure she’s the one who gets to break whatever news Seiya’s been teasing, she has to test the waters in a way that nobody would ever expect from her.

Unbeknownst to the world, Michiru Kaioh is an artist.

Of course, everyone knows about her talent with a violin. She’d chosen, publicly, to forego a more intensive homeschooling curriculum to travel and tour to, as she said, gain experience interacting with and understanding her fellow classmates. Her parents, who still fully expect her to take over their company, had been enthusiastic about this reason. So what if the only classmate Michiru really ever wants to interact with and understand is Haruka? It’s still not a lie.

But then there’s the book sitting in the third drawer down of Michiru’s desk, beneath layers of school papers with brightly scrawled “100”s and some stray sheet music: her sketchbook.

Michiru had ostensibly stopped drawing after, at the age of 10, her parents had enrolled her with a therapist, following a series of disturbing dreams that had made their way into rather destructive and bloody artwork. She’d been diagnosed with too much media, her parents had been told that she needed to interact with her peers more, and that had been that.

Except not.

Drawing’s a secret comfort to Michiru, one that she indulges in freely more and more as the years pass. She can tell, objectively, that she’s good. She’s a Kaioh, after all—being good at all she touches is in her blood.

It’s the one thing, though, that the world can’t have from her. It can have her stories. It can have her music. But it can’t have her sketches: the cherry blossom tree outside in the midst of spring, Haruka intently concentrating on a layout, Haruka absentmindedly chewing a pencil, the new office building downtown, Haruka’s smile…

Obviously, the sketchbook’s pretty volatile material.

She has the talent, though, she knows, and she turns to a blank page to begin a new sketch.

Only a few minutes later, she’s left with a brief but concise political cartoon, critiquing the way the school funnels its students into home economics programs and shop programs respectively—subject matter that will certainly go over well with Satellite’s purported viewpoints, and definitely with what Michiru knows about Seiya Kou’s brand of activism.

Michiru scans the cartoon, creates a throwaway email address (something about mermaids), and sends it to Satellite, complete with the body text: “If you want to see more where this came from, meet me at the coffee shop across the street at 9 AM on Saturday morning.”

She presses send.

* * *

The next day in the newsroom, Michiru strides in and addresses her staff: “Usagi, I know you love the Crown, but please remember that your job is to review entertainment and I sincerely doubt that an arcade does indeed have, as you say, the BEST food in Juuban; Ami, I know it was Makoto who wrote the article on the new organic bakery and that she was very excited, but a Copy Chief simply cannot allow an article in which every sentence ends in two or more exclamation points to be published; Minako, it is imperative that you change your horoscope for Pisces as soon as possible; and Rei, excellent job on your feature story, as usual.”

Rei looks smug and Minako calls, “Why, Michiru, I cannot FATHOM what you mean—I was simply talking about cats!” The huge smirk on her face does wonders to belie her words.

“Change it now,” Michiru says simply. She quickly checks her email en route to reviewing the latest news flat, when she spots a new email from Satellite: “Dude. This is brilliant. 9 AM tomorrow, I’m so there. <3 Satellite.”

Despite herself, Michiru can all but hear Haruka’s voice in her head: ‘Seiya Kou just less-than-three-ed you.’

Still, she’s satisfied as she pulls the flat in front of her and reaches for her trusty red editing pen. She’d come to school that morning to find Satellite randomly strewn everywhere, as usual, but most people didn’t seem to feel the urge to comment on it. On top of that, as for Michiru’s own publication, Rei’s new opinion article sandwiches nicely into the page, and it’s looking like the Observer will pull out a halfway decent article after all.

“Hey! Knock knock.”

Michiru turns to the newcomer, who somewhat negated the point of their knock on the open door by vocalizing the words, and is pleasantly surprised. “Elsa!”

Elsa Grey beams, surveying the newsroom. “Hey, Michi! Love what you’ve done with the place down here. Smells like ideas. And ink. Mostly ink.”

“May I ask what brings you here?” Michiru asks. She’s always been unreasonably fond of Elsa—despite her habit of referring to her as ‘Michi’ and a certain amount of touchy-feeliness that Michiru still isn’t used to, the fact remains that Elsa was one of the only people who bothered befriending Michiru in their youth, and the bond of friendship persisted.

“So!” Elsa says. “You’re probably looking for a story. Am I right?”

“Very astute of you, Elsa,” Michiru replies.

“And I have a story!”

“Do you?” Michiru tries not to look too interested.

“Yeah. It’s about me. Of course.” Elsa smiles again, and Michiru has to fight her reflex to smile just from the sheer sunniness that Elsa exudes. “So yeah! I play everything, right? This year, I decided I wanted to play football.”

Michiru blinks. “Football?”

“Why not, right? I’m fast. I’m tough.” Elsa makes a muscle and winks at Michiru.

“Hey, Elsa.” A familiar presence suddenly appears over Michiru’s shoulder.

“Oh, hey! What’s up, Tenoh?” Elsa says to her newly arrived former track teammate. “Did you hear I tried to turn out for the football team?”

Haruka furrows her brow. “The American football team?”

“Why is this so weird to you all? What’s the deal with this devotion to gender roles? Haven’t you two been dating for like the last three years?”

As usually happens upon the expression of loud, awkward statements, the entire newsroom hushes just in time for that last sentence to broadcast to everyone. The entire staff of the paper glances up at Michiru; Haruka looks like she wants to crawl under Michiru’s desk, her face aflame. “Get back to work,” Michiru says, “and no, we aren’t dating. What…” She swallows hard. “What makes you think that?”

Elsa looks at the two of them for several beats. “O-kay,” she finally says, “anyway. They wouldn’t let me try out for the football team. That’s some violation of something, isn’t it?”

“They wouldn’t let you try out at all?”

Elsa shakes her head. “Shitty, right? I’m the best athlete in our year.” She shoots a glance at Haruka. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Haruka says, albeit through a scowl.

“We could write that,” Michiru says.

“Awesome!” Elsa says.

As Michiru thinks, the pieces fall into place. “I can interview you tomorrow at 9 o’clock at the coffee shop across the street. Is that all right?” The point, after all, isn’t to actually meet with the Satellite staff, and Elsa would make a wonderful cover story if questioned.

Elsa, of course, has no idea that she’s being used as a bartering chip. “Perfect,” she replies. “See you then.”

Elsa leaves, and Haruka turns to go back to her corner. “You need a photographer?”

“That would be excellent.”

“Okay,” Haruka mumbles, getting back to work.

Michiru watches her as she goes, equal parts nervous and confused. She can’t quite shake the feeling that something’s wrong, but she doesn’t know how to even begin asking Haruka the right questions.

Unsettled, she looks back down to her flat.

* * *

On Saturday, Michiru arrives to the coffee shop fifteen minutes early, as usual when it comes to appointments, and orders a simple tea, seating herself by the window. She contemplates pulling out her sketchbook, but no, it’s too risky—especially for this environment, on something of an undercover mission.

There’s too much to risk if her sketchbook gets misplaced.

“Oi! Michiru!” None other than Seiya Kou slides into the open seat across from her. They have a giant pink blended drink with a cherry on top, which they sip enthusiastically. “This place is great, isn’t it? What brings you here so early in the morning?”

“I’m an early riser,” Michiru says neutrally, stirring her tea.

“Me too. Nothing like waking up before dawn. And then shoveling eight thousand ounces of coffee down your throat three hours later, am I right?”

Michiru looks at Seiya’s drink. “I would hardly think that qualifies as having much of a caffeine content.”

Seiya rests their chin in their hand and focuses a surprisingly intent gaze on Michiru. “I like what I like, Michiru.”

“Oh, do you, now?” Michiru says, refusing to be the first to break eye contact.

Seiya finally looks away, taking another sip of their drink. “So what have you been up to with the paper?”

Michiru gives them her most pleasant smile. “As it turns out, I’m in the middle of uncovering a big story.”

Seiya’s eyebrows shoot up far more than those of a neutral party would. “Oh yeah? Can you talk about it?”

“I suppose there’s little that would be of interest to you in these early stages, though, isn’t there? Unless you’re considering applying to work with the Observer?” Michiru delicately crosses one leg over the other.

Seiya looks to be in almost physical pain at the prospect of being so close to Michiru’s supposed scoop, and yet so far. “I suppose I wouldn’t be interested, would I? It’s not like I work for the paper or anything. I’ll read it when it comes out with everyone else, then.”

Michiru smiles—this time, it’s genuine. She’s already confirmed what she needed to know—it’s undoubtedly Seiya writing Satellite’s editorials, and even more, if Seiya does happen to have a scoop, the idea is still at the very most in fruition, and nowhere near publication.

Seiya’s gaze drifts behind Michiru, and their face darkens. They smoothly sweep their whipped cream frappucino monstrosity, still over half full, into the trash in one fluid move, and rise to their feet.

Michiru doesn’t even need to look to know what’s going on behind her, and she settles in with her tea for several minutes of a surely excellent spectacle.

Seiya grits out, “Tenoh.”

Michiru turns just in time to see Haruka, camera bag in tow, staring Seiya down. She leans on the counter and tells the barista, “Give me iced black coffee. In the largest size you have.”

Seiya’s eyebrows knit together. The barista cocks her head to the side. “You want 32 ounces of plain black coffee? Would you like room for cream?”

Only Michiru, probably, notices the slight twitch at the corner of Haruka’s mouth as she says, “No.”

“Got enough coffee?” Seiya asks.

“More coffee than you,” Haruka responds, taking her almost laughably sized drink.

“Aren’t you going to take a sip?” Seiya says.

“I’m letting it settle,” Haruka mumbles.

“You’re not even going to drink that, are you?” asks Seiya.

In response, Haruka takes a Herculean swallow. Her face, in response, looks like she’s just seen the four horsemen of the apocalypse for a brief second, before she screws her features back into submission. “This coffee…is excellent,” she manages.

As entertaining as Haruka and Seiya tends to be, Michiru’s almost relieved when Elsa walks in, football in tow.

“Hey!” Elsa says, upon spying the three of them. “Gang’s all here, huh? What’re you talking about?”

“The news,” Michiru says.

“Wow. That’s super exciting for a gang of two hundred year olds,” Elsa comments.

“Michiru was just telling me about a scoop,” Seiya says, giving a rather intentionally adoring look in Michiru’s direction.

Haruka snorts derisively into her ridiculous black coffee. “Please. Douchebag in Chief over here wouldn’t know a scoop if it hit you over the head.”

“What was that?” Seiya snaps.

Elsa whistles. “These two don’t like each other, huh?”

Michiru shrugs. “Haruka…has difficulty with people she sees as her rivals.”

“My rival?” the two chorus in unison, then look disgustedly at the other.

Elsa nearly breaks into applause. “Wow. I’m sensing a lot of tension in the room.”

“It’s because—”

“Maybe if you weren’t—”

As Haruka and Seiya launch into another argument, Elsa slides into the chair next to Michiru. “I was going to buy you your drink, but you beat me to the punch. You’re punctual.”

“I do tend to be,” Michiru agrees. “Besides, I think it would compromise my journalistic integrity were I to accept gifts from you.”

“Michiru Kaioh, taking bribes? I never!” Elsa grins. “Is nothing sacred anymore?”

“I have tea, I’m observing Haruka and Seiya’s performance, and I’m about to be able to do my job. This moment is fairly content for me,” Michiru replies.

Elsa follows Michiru’s gaze. “You’re really fond of her, aren’t you?” she says.

“We’ve been friends since elementary school,” Michiru replies, feeling little need to say much else. Elsa doesn’t need to know the story about how Michiru pulled Haruka’s struggling self out of two feet of water at the community pool at one of Michiru’s parents’ ‘Let’s Pretend We’re A Normal Family’ days out.

“You smile when you talk about her,” Elsa continues.

“We’re friends, Elsa.” Michiru isn’t sure how long she can stay neutral in this conversation.

Elsa’s eyes soften. “Hey.” She scoots her chair a bit closer to Michiru’s, a move that definitely doesn’t go unnoticed. “So there’s really nothing going on between you and Haruka?” she asks, voice lowered.

It pains Michiru, but anything except for the truth is unacceptable, especially with Haruka right there. Elsa DEFINITELY doesn’t need to know how Michiru’s all but been throwing herself at Haruka for the past three years, to absolutely no avail—either Haruka’s not interested, or she’s the most dense person in existence. Michiru knows it’s the former. She murmurs, “It’s true.”

“Good,” Elsa says, looking bashful for the first time since Michiru’s known her. “Because I was wondering, and I should probably say this before you actually interview me, because of ethics and everything, but I was wondering if maybe you would—”

At that moment, approximately 31 ounces of iced black coffee spill across the table and directly into Elsa’s lap.

“Holy—!” Elsa leaps up, sending ice cubes and coffee splattering to the ground.

“Oh, wow. Sorry,” Haruka says, sounding like she’s reading a weather report out loud.

Seiya snorts. “And you call me Douchebag in Chief?”

“I think an icecube just went down my pants,” Elsa gasps. “Like, multiple ice cubes actually!” She makes a subhuman keening noise.

“Haruka, get her some napkins,” Michiru commands. She scoops up the two that came with her own drink—a rather meager offering, in the scope of the veritable ocean soaking Elsa—but it’s a start.

As Haruka returns with a brown paper clump, Elsa actually manages a laugh. “Wow, Tenoh. I know your knees are bad, but what happened to your reflexes?”

It’s obviously meant as a joke to lighten the mood and show no hard feelings, standard Elsa Gray operating procedure, but Haruka darkens. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, Haruka, I didn’t mean anything.” Elsa smiles at Michiru. “This is kind of refreshing, actually. Caffeine baths are totally a thing, huh? I’m not making any of this up, right? Super rich people, like, have tubs full of caffeine that they just dunk themselves in to get these supercharged buzzes. I’m definitely awake now, at least.”

Haruka scowls. “If not for my knee, I’d challenge you right now.”

“In what? Football?” Elsa raises her eyebrows. “Since when do you care about football?”

“I wish you could play football, too. It would be nice to know I would’ve still been able to beat you even at your prime,” Seiya adds.

Haruka grabs her bag, twists it around, and places it delicately on the table. She’d obviously wanted to slam it, but thought better of the expensive equipment inside.

It doesn’t have exactly the same effect. “We’re taking pictures. Now,” she growls.

Elsa glances down at herself, still soaked. “You sure know how to capture a girl’s best angle.”

Michiru looks over at Seiya. “You used to be interested in football. What happened?”

Seiya shrugs. “I got interested in something else.”

“Oh yeah? What? Being—”

Seiya, mercifully, cuts Haruka off. “It’s…secret,” they finish, somewhat pathetically.

“I bet it’s secret, Airhead in Chief,” Haruka grumbles.

“Wow. Airhead’s a step up from Douchebag, I guess,” Seiya comments.

Michiru turns to Elsa. “Perhaps we should do this some other time.”

“Perhaps so,” Elsa sighs. “But…think about what I said, okay? You know what I meant—Haruka, did you just knock your cup over again?”

“It was empty.”

“You say that like it was a bad thing.”

* * *

 

Several days later, nothing in particular has surfaced except the usual reports on goings-on at Mugen, and Michiru’s starting to get frustrated.

She tosses down a so-called expose on the cafeteria’s lunch meat written by a bubbly new first year. “This article is a terrible excuse for research, it features no sources, and I think there’s a total of three punctuation marks in the whole thing. It’s unsalvageable, even for Ami. It’s time to let her go.”

“Really?” Haruka says. “I think she can learn.”

Michiru fixes Haruka with a stern look. “Explain your point of view, please.”

“Well,” Haruka starts, “she’s really sweet. I think she has a good idea here.” She pauses. “Also, she bought me a tray of really good homemade brownies the other day, so she has her uses.”

“I’m sure her attractiveness has nothing to do with it,” Michiru mumbles, fighting down a rush of jealousy.

“What?” Haruka asks, lost in thought while apparently reminiscing about the divine first year brownies.

“Never mind,” Michiru says, and turns back to her screen.

“No, what?” Haruka presses, curious.

“Nothing. How are your photos turning out?”

“They’re fine,” Haruka says, accepting the abrupt subject change but obviously still curious. “Rei wants me to shoot something for her story on the Winter Formal, but I don’t even know where to start.”

“You could start with the countless invitations from first years to go with you,” Michiru says, in her notoriously pleasant danger tone.

Haruka knows the tone well, and she pauses, her knee jiggling, one of her most productive work habits, coming to halt. It’s rare that Haruka’s completely still, and it’s enough to instantly draw Michiru’s attention. “Maybe I could start with you and Elsa Gray,” she says.

Michiru looks up over her computer screen and scans Haruka’s face. “What do you think is going on between me and Elsa?” she asks.

Haruka shrugs and jerks her head away. “She wants you to think about it,” she says, “I heard her at the coffee shop.”

“And why would that be such a bad thing?” Michiru continues in her head, it’s not like YOU want to do anything about it.

“Because Elsa isn’t good enough for you,” Haruka mumbles.

Out of nowhere, the temperature in the room seems to have increased by about ten degrees. The air is still and thin as Michiru says, “Then who is?”

There’s one beat. Then two.

Haruka stands, grabbing her coat and her camera bag. “I have a thing to do, pictures to take of a thing, I’ll get them done and have them to you tomorrow. See you.”

As the door swings shut behind her, Michiru resists the urge to scream.

* * *

The next issue of Satellite features the prominent headline of “BIG STORY!!!!” and Michiru’s heart sinks, but when she flips through, all she sees is a whiny diatribe from Seiya about tater tots: _“_ _Dear Readers, this is going to be the last issue of Satellite. Well, not actually, but it could be. My heart cannot go on. Get ready for this, because this is devastating news. You might need to sit down. Here it goes…deep breath…the cafeteria is OFFICIALLY PHASING OUT TATER TOTS. The tater tots! Those tots are the perfect blend of crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, garnished with enough salt that I can practically FEEL my lifespan shrinking with each one I put in my mouth. It’s GREAT. But now, no more. Those tots, friends, LUBRICATED MY BRAIN WITH THE GREASE. I don’t know if—I…”_ Blank white space for the rest of the page.

It’s not one of Seiya’s best.

* * *

 

It’s almost 8 PM and Michiru’s alone in the newsroom. The school is quiet, all but abandoned, and not for the first time, Michiru is thankful for her ability to use her connections to allow her to stay here for this long. She’s alone, and peaceful, and melancholy. Haruka’s working, and there’s nothing for her to do but edit flat. After flat. And type up a story to fill in where she’d fired two writers earlier in that week. And try not to think about why she and Haruka haven’t spent any time outside of school together since their argument about the Winter Formal.

Michiru can feel a headache coming on.

She massages her temples, staring down at the paper, and the words all blur in front of her. She closes her eyes.

“Hey, Michiru!”

Michiru peeks out through her fingers to see Minako leaning on the doorframe. “Yes, hello.” She’s not sure if she has the energy to deal with Minako this late in the evening, and contemplates excuses. Faking her own death, at this point, is close to the top.

“Hey! Yeah.” Minako beams. “I’m taking you out.”

“To do what?” Michiru asks warily. Years of friendship with Minako have taught her that this is the sort of question one always needs to ask.

“To eat,” Minako says triumphantly, “and to talk, because believe me, I’ve got a story for you.”

“The last time someone told me this, Elsa Grey bathed in coffee and Haruka nearly tackled Seiya onto a table,” Michiru mumbled.

“Oh, what was that you just said?” Minako chirps. “‘I’m a total stick in the mud and I never want to have any fun?’ Well, unfortunately, my lovely Editor in Chief, fun has come to you! Grab your coat!”

* * *

 

“You’re taking me to Haruka’s father’s restaurant,” Michiru realizes.

“Well, yeah! We totally get the employee discount! Well, maybe you don’t because of all the money, but for some of us, it’s a big deal. Hey, Haruka!”

Haruka, waiting tables, looks over and freezes.

“Don’t worry,” Minako calls, “I won’t embarrass you. Much.” She turns back to the menu. “Has she asked you out to the Winter Formal yet?”

“What?” Michiru starts. “Whyever would—”

“Oh my god,” Minako groans, “not this again. It’s your third year of high school. It’s time for you to live! Have you even tried? Has she?”

“Haruka—” Michiru cuts herself off as Haruka herself appears at their table, notepad in tow, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Minako,” Haruka says. Barely looking at her, Haruka mumbles, “Michiru.”

Minako blinks at the two of them for a moment. “Well, that was weird,” she comments. “What—ow!”

Michiru returns her foot to her own side of the table after a truly spectacular kick and orders quickly. Haruka jots it down and looks to Minako.

Minako returns to her usual self quickly. “Okay. Hey, garçon! Bring me the menu for your finest spirits, and now that I mention it, if I read that sign outside right, isn’t it ladies’ night? All drinks are free for me?”

Haruka casts a pointed glance at the window of the restaurant, blank except for a very tasteful logo, and says, “I’ll bring you that menu if you bring me an ID that actually has your name on it.”

“Aw, you’re no fun, Dad.” Minako carelessly tosses the menu aside. “I’ll have the usual, I guess. Garnished with tears. Can you go on break?”

Haruka looks down at herself. “I’m literally in the middle of taking your order. Right now.”

Michiru says, “Minako has a story.”

Haruka rolls her eyes and shoots Michiru the first half-smile in days. “I bet.”

“Hey, I saw that!” Minako calls. Slumping back down in the seat, she sighs. “Damn. Maybe it’s time to mess with the Aquarius horoscope for next week. Oh man, Rei’s gonna kill me.” Minako grins, as if the prospect of near certain death excites her. To be fair, it probably does. “I can’t say the word ‘dick’ in the newspaper, can I? Maybe the tenth try’s the charm.”

“You absolutely cannot,” Michiru says, shutting that down as quickly as possible.

Haruka returns with drinks. “Michiru, here’s tea, and Minako, here’s a glass full of tears. Just for you.”

“Is it organic?” Minako takes a swig. “Tastes like regular water to me, but maybe you’re just really hydrated. That’s fine. Either way, it’ll take the sting off the realization that our school’s administration is run by a bunch of butts.”

“In scientific terms,” Michiru comments.

“So you may or may not have noticed the intense courtship that I have been undergoing with a certain News Editor we all know and love,” Minako begins.

“Am I dead in this hypothetical scenario? That’s the only way I wouldn’t have noticed,” Haruka interrupts. “Do you know how many times I’ve been caught in the middle of your smoldering glances?”

Minako waves a hand. “So you’re suffering for science. Get over it. ANYWAY, I had a marvelous plan to ask her to the Winter Formal, and I thought first I would buy tickets.”

“Before you had a date?” Michiru asks, rather admiring the chutzpah.

“Yes, before I had a date. I had this thought that maybe if I did that, it would make the whole universe just swing on to my side, and it would be great, and I mean, the secret of happiness is positive thinking or something like that, right? So I go to buy tickets, and they ask me if I want a couple or a single. And I’m like, a couple of course, because hello, I know all there is to know about love—”

Two scoffs, in sync.

“That? That was the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen,” Minako says, “did you practice that in all the time you weren’t busy making out alone in the newsroom? No? You’re both blushing. Anyway, so I go to buy a ticket, and they need to get my date’s name, and I say Rei.”

“Is this what you meant by Rei is going to kill you?” Haruka asks.

“Nope, that was solely about how she took over horoscopes from me for one week and everyone complained until I got the job back.” Minako cackles. “That was a great time. Anyway, the person taking the money says, if you’re going with her, then you’ve got to get the friend rate, which costs more. And I said, no, she’s my date, not just my friend! And of course at this point I’m being really presumptuous, but they’re grilling me anyway. And I’m wondering if maybe they’re going to, like, even call Rei or something to confirm, that’s how serious they’re being. And that would REALLY ruin the romance. At least I don’t rely on other people to do my romantic dirty work for me.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Haruka says.

Minako gives Haruka a Meaningful Look. “Anyway—”

“Haruka!” shouts an annoyed looking man from over by the kitchen.

“Sorry,” Haruka murmurs, and dashes off.

“Well, now that tall, blonde and dorky is gone,” Minako says, “we can talk for real. So? They’re being really problematic by not selling the couples rate for girls who want to go with girls. Sucks, yeah?”

“Yes,” Michiru responds.

“So when you go with Haruka,” Michiru prompts, “you’ll have to pay way more.”

“I’m not going anywhere with Haruka,” Michiru says, her chest twisting even as the words come out.

Minako laughs. “Oh, come on. I’m just getting upset with you now. You honestly don’t think there’s anything there? The whole world can see that you have a thing for Haruka.”

“Except, maybe, Haruka,” Michiru murmurs.

And then it hits her. This is it. This is her story.

It’s not even all the aspect of Minako and Rei being denied tickets, or two girls being denied tickets in the first place. It’s everything that it entails. The questions. The constant seeking. The ever-present need for affirmation, for proof that no, she’s not seeing things, or making things up, or imagining things. The feeling of Haruka flirting with every girl that comes her way. The intense jealousy of being next to Haruka, and seeing this happen. The knowledge that even if, hope against hope, Haruka ever bothered to accept Michiru’s feelings, that they couldn’t even buy tickets to the school dance.

“Michiru!” Minako calls, in a way that gives Michiru the idea that she’s been calling her name for a while. “Hello, snap out of it?”

“I need to leave,” Michiru mumbles.

“Oh-ho! You’ve come to a big dramatic romantic realization. I commend you, of course. Even enough to sit here dining alone. Ahem.”

Michiru lays down some money. “On me.”

“We get a discount,” Minako calls after her, “but thanks for the tip. Cupid needs to be paid too. People don’t usually consider that.”

* * *

Michiru arrives back home and makes a beeline for her desk, pulling out her sketchbook

Michiru draws into the night, telling her story in the truest way she can.

By the time she’s done, it’s almost 11 PM, and she has several pages.

She tells the story of the lonely schoolgirl plagued by nightmares that only abated once she made her first true friend.

She tells of evenings and afternoons spent in the bleachers at Haruka’s games, and the times that Haruka always attended her performances.

She tells of the Observer, and how she can never get close enough.

She tells of years spent watching Haruka, admiring Haruka, and how she’s never come right out and say it.

In the pages of her art, she says it.

And she has nowhere to go but to the restaurant.

It’s nearly deserted at that point, except for a couple of straggling diners in the corner and Haruka mopping near the kitchen.

She glances up as Michiru charges in and strides up to her. “Michiru! Where did you go at dinner? I was—”

Michiru shoves the pages into Haruka’s hands. “I need you to read this.”

“What…” Haruka looks down. “Did you draw this?”

Michiru swallows hard, her throat suddenly dry. “Yes,” she says, “for you. All of it is for you.”

Haruka stares at her, then glances down, paging through.

Finally she gets to the end. “You drew this?”

Michiru coughs delicately and looks down at the shiny clean floor. “You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know.”

“It’s amazing,” Haruka says quietly. “I never knew you could draw. I should have expected it because it’s you and you’re amazing, but—”

Michiru’s blushing already. “Nobody else knows I can draw,” she replies. “

Haruka quickly looks around, confirming the emptiness. “I…” She swallows hard. “You spent all of that time thinking that I never…”

Then she grabs the lapels of Michiru’s coat, pulls her forward, and kisses her.

Michiru stumbles forward with surprise, and her momentum sends Haruka stumbling back against the wall in turn, and then she realizes: Haruka’s holding onto her, and she’s holding onto Haruka, and one hand is supporting herself against the wall and the other hand is around Haruka’s waist and she’s kissing her, really kissing her, like she means it, years of longing and pain and love culminating in this moment.

“Wow. And you get mad at me for trying to TALK to you during your shift.”

“Minako?” Michiru gasps, pulling back.

Haruka’s face is bright red. “I thought you went home?”

“Turns out that when you see Michiru crashing a place like how she stormed in here, it makes a person want to stick around. So! Michiru’s a genius artist, you two are super in love, and here we are! What now?” Minako asks.

“This is my story,” Michiru says. “It’s my scoop.”

Haruka’s eyes widen. “This? The administration’s going to hate it.”

“I never cared about the administration,” Michiru says, a wave of calm sweeping across her body. It’s true. It’s all true.

“You’re going to print this?” Minako says, eyebrows raised.

“Maybe not exactly this,” Michiru replies, “but I’ve realized. The point of a good story isn’t just the facts you know—it’s the people who make it up.”

“You’ve been in journalism for how long and you’re just now coming to this realization?” Minako says.

“Thank you, Minako,” Michiru says, and turns back to Haruka, who’s giving her a suspiciously watery gaze. Michiru decides her best course of action is to kiss her before Haruka breaks down entirely, and she savors the sensation of Haruka smiling against her mouth.

When they finally pull apart, Haruka murmurs, “You always said you’d tell the stories that needed to be told. I…I’m really glad I got to hear yours.”

Michiru smiles, her whole body full of joy. “Maybe I’ll tell yours next.”

“Mine?” Haruka tenderly brushes a strand of hair back from Michiru’s face. “What would you say about me?”

“The story of the track star turned photographer? Fascinating enough to me.”

“You’re reaching,” Haruka laughs, but she snuggles Michiru close anyway. “How about the one with the fake photographer who lied about her experience to get to be closer to the Editor in Chief of the school paper?”

Michiru flushes. “You lied about that? All of that?”

Haruka looks a bit sheepish. “Still a story you like?”

“It ends in you. Of course,” Michiru murmurs, and draws Haruka in for a kiss.


End file.
